"Oh, isn't it? Any particular myth you recognize, Doc?"
Another flash, and there stood the miniature prophet again. "You are in the midst of a tale from the collection Vikram and the Vampire, compiled by the sage Bhavabhuti, and translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton—yes, the explorer who helped search for the headwaters of the Nile."
Shea goggled, but Chalmers said, completely unruffled, "Which tale exactly?"
"The fifth," the prophet said, and held out a cupped palm. "Two shillings, please." Feeling numb, Shea handed over another Russian coin. The prophet took it and bowed. "Thank you, gentlemen! Call again, whenever you please!"
Shea found his voice. "But we didn't. Call again, I mean."
"True, but we make unbounded returns. Good evening." The prophet disappeared brilliantly.
"Don't ask any more questions," Chalmers advised, "or he'll be back in a flash."
"I won't," Shea promised. "I'm having trouble enough adjusting to the idea of a plainclothes rajah."
"Surely you do not believe the little man!"
"You mean the Prophet of Profit? Why not? We've run into stranger things," Shea sighed. "Besides, his being king would explain the attempt at disguise."
Chalmers frowned. "How so?"
"Because if his royal nose is of a size with his rank, of course he'd want to make it look shorter. Hadn't we better go looking for that alley now?"
"Yes, by all means." Chalmers followed Shea along the dusty street. "We must see to obtaining local clothing as soon as possible."
"I think we'll have to wait for daybreak, when the shops open. What caste do you think I should opt for?"
"Persian robes—a traveler from the West will be your best role here. That avoids the whole issue of caste as well as it can be avoided."
"But not too far to the west, hm?"
"Indeed. Our Medieval Russian garb must be quite incomprehensible to most of the local residents. We want to be believable as foreigners, not maniacs. For myself, a simple saffron robe will do nicely—I shall be a sunnyasi, a wandering holy man."
"With your Northern European complexion? Whom do you think you're fooling?"
"Philosophers can be of any breed, and still be credible," Chalmers replied, with a loftiness that made Shea wonder about suppressed impulses toward asceticism. He decided a quick change of subject was in order. "I thought our little philosopher was Victorian English."
"He was—he came from John Wellington Wells' shop at Number Seventy, Simmery Axe."
"But we're speaking a Hindu dialect right now. How come we understood him?"
"He is magical, you know," Chalmers sighed, "unlimited knowledge, and all that sort of thing."
"Oh." Shea let that one sink in. Then he asked, "You mean he's apt to show up any time I ask a question now?" He glanced at the darkness about him with apprehension, realizing too late that he might have triggered another visit.
So did Chalmers; he let out a sigh of relief when nothing flashed. "Only if it's a matter of knowledge we do not have, or cannot gain locally, I would presume. Still, I would be careful what you asked for."
"I know—I might get it." Shea pointed. "There's a likely looking alley."
"What it's looking like, I will not say." Chalmers eyed the black space between buildings with misgiving. "Still, if it is our only hope of avoiding the gang of thieves, let us hie ourselves thither."
"Thither?" Shea echoed, but he headed for the mouth of the alley anyway.
Stepping in, they passed from bright moonlight into sudden shadow. "Where are you, Harold?" Chalmers whispered.
"Right beside you—or your voice, anyway. This place is as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta." Then Shea remembered that they might not be all that far from Calcutta, and swallowed. Sweat would have sprung out all over his body, if it hadn't already. "Why are we whispering?"
"Because it's da-ah-uh-HO!" Chalmers stumbled, lurched, and reached out to catch hold of Shea, who braced himself just in time to keep both of them on their feet.
"Stupid fool!" hissed a voice that started below them, then rose quickly in both pitch and elevation. "Can you not see where you step?"
"N-no, actually, we can't." Shea huddled back against Chalmers, then remembered himself and stepped in front, hand going to his sword. He could only just make out the gleam of reflected light from eyes and an earring. "Can't see a thing." But his eyes were adjusting to the deeper darkness, and he could detect a vague, irregular circle low down in the wall opposite him, with another man coming out of it on hands and knees. Chalmers had tripped over their current conversationalist as he made his exit—but who came out of a building through a hole in the wall? Especially with a bagful of hard-looking lumpy objects over his shoulder?
Thieves—and ones who didn't pussyfoot around with such niceties as lockpicks or glass-cutters. But how did they knock a hole in a wall without making a racket that would bring down every policeman in the neighborhood?
Easy—no police. And the neighbors didn't bother the men because they were scared stiff. "Doc," Shea hissed, "I think we've found our gang of thieves."
"Not mine," Chalmers assured him, then forced a smile and stepped forward. "Greetings, O Man of Skill! We are strangers in your fair city, and . . ."
"Strangers indeed, not to know enough to keep within doors at night!" A knife suddenly appeared at Chalmers' throat—rough and homemade, by Shea's twentieth-century standards, but with a gleam of sharpness to its edge that showed it was quite functional. "What shall we do with these two, Chankoor?"
"Hold them a moment, Din," the other man said as he stood up. "When we are all out, we shall take him to the captain."
"Even as he says," Din told Chalmers and Shea. "Hold yourselves quite still now, or my hand might waver."
Chalmers swallowed convulsively, almost nicking his Adam's apple in the process, and stared at the man with bulging eyes. Behind his back, Shea stiffened a finger and let it relax, very slowly, as he began to mutter something about melting, but Chalmers clamped a hand onto his arm, and Shea decided that Doc hadn't quite given up hope of talking his way out of this.
"Take your hand from your sword-hilt, cow-eater," Din sneered, and twisted the knife for emphasis. Below him, a third man, then a fourth, crawled out of the hole, the last reaching back to drag out two more bags of plunder.
"Tell us who you are, completely and truthfully," Chankoor demanded.
"Tell him, Harold," Chalmers said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving Din's face.
"Harr-ld?" Chankooor scowled at Shea. "What manner of name is that?"
Shea tried to remember what the Hindus might have called Europeans, before the Portuguese opened up trade with their ports. "We are, uh, Frankish, uh . . . thieves! Yes, Frankish thieves, come to study the techniques of your so-excellent band, whose fame has reached even to . . ."
"The truth!" The knife twisted again, and Chalmers gasped.
Shea wondered on which part of his concoction the man had caught him out. "Oh, all right! We heard there were rich pickings here, and that no one could stop robbers in this city, so we came to . . . well . . ."
"Cut a slice of the haunch for yourself?" Chankoor grunted. "Foolish barbarian! Know that our captain will tolerate no band but his own in this city! However, if your gods bless you, perhaps he will allow you to join us. Come, then, and we will take you to him. Turn and go!"
The knife withdrew, and a hard hand turned Chalmers toward the mouth of the alley. His shoulders slumped with relief even as he stepped away, then stepped faster as the knife-point pricked the back of his neck and the hard hand tugged him along.